


mors vincit omnia

by FriendsandSpecialPets



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Discussions of funeral traditions, Good-byes aren't as hard if the person isn't really leaving you, Growing Old Together, M/M, Or so I would imagine, Will and Hannibal survived the fall, mentions of animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 09:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendsandSpecialPets/pseuds/FriendsandSpecialPets
Summary: (Death conquers all).Those who meet in the revelry of death are not destined for the restfulness of a grave.





	mors vincit omnia

_Tempus edax rerum._

 

The air smelled like decomposition.

It didn’t really matter what was rotting, and it was unwise to stray too far from the cabin. He was still recovering from his injuries, after all. But the biting cold compelled him to move. He slipped through the trees. The patches of light and shadow felt as if they were moving, as if he was trapped in a huge projector.

Or perhaps he was very small. A specimen under a microscope.

He found the bird in a small clearing, spread gracelessly over the ground. A vulture. An ugly thing, really. Bigger than Will seemed to remember most vultures being.

He left it where it was and went home.

Later, when they were sitting by the fire, he brought it up to Hannibal.

“There’s a dead bird in the woods,” he said. He didn’t know why he was bothering to tell Hannibal about it. Perhaps it was the brandy loosening his tongue. “Vulture. Big. I’m surprised the other animals haven’t gotten to it yet.”

Hannibal made a thoughtful noise.

“In Tibet, traditional Buddhist funerals involved the cutting up of the deceased person’s body and the spreading of their parts out in the open, so that the scavenger birds could eat it,” he said.

It seemed a strange topic, funerals. For all the death they’d seen, they’d encountered very little by way of organized mourning.

 

_A fork hitting glass._

  
In Russia, at the edge of civilization, there was a woman. Will didn’t know her name, and he suspected Hannibal didn’t either. Neither of them particularly cared. She shot the stray Will had been caring for in their tiny home. Will had found the dog’s body on his way home from the liquor store to get some more whiskey, laid out by the side of the road.

That night, he and Hannibal had broken into her house. They found her asleep on her back in the bed. Her eyes opened, wild and terrified, but she had no time to scream. The blade drew across her neck quickly, efficiently.

“Do you feel better now, my love?” asked Hannibal. His tone was almost playful as he cut the woman open with the precision only a former surgeon could have. Will watched the blood slipping over his gloves in rivulets, small waterfalls in a large room. He didn’t answer, but he knew Hannibal didn’t care. It had been many years since they fled America. They’d been together long enough to find answers in the slightest shifts of each other’s postures, in the tones of each other’s silence.

“You know,” said Hannibal, slipping the wet lump of the woman’s kidney into the plastic bag he’d brought with them for that purpose without looking. His eyes were on the woman’s face. “In the Philippines, the Tinguian people observe someone’s passing by dressing them up and having them sit in a chair. They put a lit cigarette in their mouth and treat the person as if they’re still alive.”

Will pulled the edges of the blanket up across the woman’s chest without thinking. He could feel Hannibal watching him.

 

_The sigh that accompanies an unsatisfying wine._

 

He didn’t know when it started, but every time they killed someone, every time they cut pieces away from a body, Will felt as if the second hand of a clock was ticking in his chest. Sometimes it felt so strong, he wanted to ask Hannibal to feel it. But he knew it was psychosomatic. He knew what it was telling him.

 

_Death comes for all of us, sooner or later._

 

It had been many, many years since they’d fled America.

In the mornings, Will woke up to the sound of Hannibal’s cane hitting the floor. He listened to shuffle of his lover’s feet as he left the bedroom. They slept next to the kitchen in their tiny, shack-like house in Norway because that meant it was easy for Hannibal to get to it. His lover didn’t walk so well anymore. His hands shook as he went through the motions of preparing breakfast. He rarely complained, but Will knew his joints pained him terribly. Will’s weren’t in great shape, either, but even after all he’d been through, his body moved easier than Hannibal’s.

They were laying in bed one night, Hannibal reading a book and Will working on an American crossword puzzle he’d managed to get his hands on, when Hannibal broke the fragile cocoon of silence they’d built around the passing of the hours.

“In some cultures, it is customary to eat the bodies of dead loved ones,” Hannibal murmured. His eyes met Will’s. He could look very peaceful when it was just the two of them. There was no pretense between them anymore. “It’s viewed as a way of keeping the person with you forever.”

 

_Dim light from an old candle._

 

There could be no funeral bells for them. No grand coffin, no perfectly-pressed suit. They had met through the violence and beauty of death, had swallowed the same blood and eaten the same flesh. There could be no conventional organization in their passing. They had surrendered their ties to mundane society a long, long time ago.

Hannibal died in his sleep.

 

_The darkness of an empty place, slowly creeping towards him. He cannot feel the second hand ticking in his heart anymore._

 

Will sets his fork down next to his plate. He doesn’t have much of an appetite, lately. It’s hard to want to eat when every bite tastes like a different memory. He pushes his chair back across the worn linoleum time and carries his plate to the refrigerator. It would probably have been better if he had died first, he thinks. Hannibal would have known how to prepare a beautiful feast.

He’s never been able to make Hannibal’s body taste quite right.

He slides the plate into the refrigerator and shuts the door. He shuffles out of the kitchen, into the bedroom, alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written for this fandom before, which is weird. I feel like this is something I should have already done a long time ago. Better late than never, I guess.
> 
> Comments and reviews are always welcome.


End file.
